Fleur De Lies(37)

            A faraway look crept into his eyes, chased away by a hint of a smile that slowly slid into an incredulous grin. “Holy smokes. I could be a father.”





                     seven

            The following morning, in an attempt to avoid a repeat performance of last night’s dinner, I showed up at the restaurant ten minutes after it opened and staked out a quiet table for four. It stood in an intimate corner, was happily unoccupied, and best of all, sat in the direct path of the morning sun, which splashed across the table in a warm flood of blinding light. Anyone foolish enough to sit with me would face the risk of having their retinas incinerated.

            I’d stopped at the reception desk before returning to my cabin last night to inquire about the possibility of obtaining Madeleine Saint-Sauveur’s contact information and was thrilled when the purser told me she’d be happy to share the information if Mrs. Saint- Sauveur agreed. “I’ll send her a message, Mrs. Miceli,” she told me in her clipped British accent. “I don’t foresee any problem. Guests are usually so enamored with Mrs. Saint-Sauveur that they often ask for an email address so they might continue to correspond with her.”

            Yes!

            I felt giddy with anticipation as I slid my oversized designer sunglasses onto my face and opened the breakfast menu. Would my efforts pave the way for Osmond and Solange to reunite permanently? Would the star-crossed lovers decided to tie the knot after all these years? Would Osmond learn he really was a father? Oh, my God. The poor guy probably wouldn’t know what to send out first: wedding invitations or birth announcements.

            “Mrs. Miceli? Why do you sit here in the sun with all these other tables to choose from?” Patrice appeared out of nowhere, wielding a beverage carafe in each hand. “Come. I move you.”

            “Not necessary.” I tapped my sunglasses. “I’ve adapted.”

            “But the sun. You find it annoying, yes?”

            “Not half as annoying as I hope some other guests will find it.”

            He squinted at me, clearly uncomprehending.

            “If one of those carafes contains tea, I’d love for you to pour me a cup, and I’m going to skip the buffet this morning in favor of the breakfast special.”

            “Ah. L’omlette de jambon et de legume avec le raifort a infuse la sauce. An excellent choice.” After pouring my tea, he set the carafes down and made a notation on his order pad. “Très bien.”

            “Don’t go anywhere, Patricia!” Woody’s voice boomed out behind me. “Not before you pour me some coffee.”

            I sagged in my chair. There was no God … There was no God …

            He rapped his knuckles on my table as he drew abreast. “This seat taken?”

            “The sun, monsieur,” fussed Patrice. “Would you not prefer to sit—”

            “Hell, I invaded North Africa in ’42. Don’t talk to me about sun.” He pulled out the chair opposite me and sat down.

            “You’re all alone this morning?” I asked in what I hoped would pass as a normal tone. “No Cal?”

            He offered up his cup for Patrice to fill. “The boy is slower than molasses. He was still in the shower when I left the cabin. Not sure how his wife puts up with it. Someone needs to light a stick of dynamite under him. You can’t get ahead in life if you spend all your time pulling up the rear.”

            “Maybe Cal has a different idea about what getting ahead in life actually means.”

            He rolled his eyes as he took a sip of coffee. “I’m passing on the family business to a man who’s the proverbial guppy in the shark tank. Great-grampa Jolly, who was one of the first lions in the funeral industry, is probably rolling over in his grave. But look, I don’t want to talk about Cal. I want to talk about Victor.” He downed another mouthful before setting his cup on its saucer. “Is it just me, or is there something fishy about that fella?”